kisses & knishes

Living in Buenos Aires with an Orthodox Jewish family has been a particularly enlightening experience, one which has proven to be a temperamental tour of mishaps and mitzvahs. While a majority of the comical encounters I come across on a daily basis are probably shared amongst all NYU students residing in Argentine home-stays, the minor disasters that I cause each day, in my kosher kitchen and Shabbos supper, are a genuinely unique affair.

Truth be told, when Vivianna Saal wrote to me in January, describing her family as “traditionally Jewish,” I thought to myself—mazel tov! Though it wasn’t exactly what I had expected from the 92% Roman Catholic country, my anxious heart was put at ease knowing that I could automatically understand certain things about her family. First and foremost, I knew food wouldn’t be an issue. (I must admit to feeling slightly disappointed, however, that I wouldn’t get the homemade empanadas I’d been dreaming of, but I’ve never been known to turn down a good brisket either!) Secondly, the understanding that Jewish mothers only differ slightly, within a very narrow spectrum of defined characteristics, left me feeling safe in the assumption that this Viviana would be taking very good care of me.

And indeed my assumptions were correct. Vivi turned out to be exactly what I expected and more. Overly hospitable to the point of exceeding irritation, an excellent cook whose use of chicken fat instead of oil has resulted in my gaining several pounds, and a loving and maternal woman who uses passive aggression and guilt to convey her feelings—Vivi is truly a blessing.

How To Be A Good Jewish Wife Lesson #1: Knish Making

But living with Vivi, her husband Jacovo, their strange maid who pretends not to speak English, and my NYU roommate (also orthodox)--in the tiniest apartment imaginable--has been a trying experience as well. More of a cultural encounter than I had bargained for, I’ve found myself lighting the Shabbos candles, washing my hands before getting to eat bread at dinner, stumbling upon Vivi’s extended family—asleep on the livingroom floor—in the midst of a little Shabbat siesta, getting reproached for mixing the milk and dairy silverware, and told semi-jokingly (and through much less subtle innuendo) of the option of early marriage, religious practice, and the remaining chance for me to enter into this blessed accord.

Awkwardness aside, Vivi’s self-sacrificing nature, inability to confront issues directly, and general pushiness, has made me feel right at home. Whether I walk into to the house and say that I’ve already eaten dinner, only to get a knock on my bedroom door sometime later with a plate of food piled high (just in case); or whether I’m relentlessly being groomed to be a good Orthodox wife at age 21, you’ve got to love the woman.

If anything, this whole thing is probably more of a demanding ordeal for her. I mean I’m most likely the closest thing to a shiksa she’s ever had in her house—not respecting Shabbat, coming home late most nights, with my long showers and shoulders out! The least I can do, is let her go on like she does, allowing her to be content with the fantasy that my roommate and I have entered into a competition to see who will get married first. I say, whatever keeps the knishes coming!